


brave the depths

by illinois_e



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Established Relationship, Explicit Language, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Minor Character Death, Suicide, and his friends try to help, in which sehun is depressive, key word: try
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-08-29 10:56:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8486656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illinois_e/pseuds/illinois_e
Summary: Sehun falls apart, trying really hard not to break in a million pieces; Jongin watches from a close distance, ready to glue them together, wanting nothing more than to fix something that can't be fixed at all. Or: where grief and growth walk hand-in-hand.





	

**Author's Note:**

> for meliorismo
> 
> english is not my first language, so if you find a mistake, feel free to point it in the comments!

It starts like this: with an ending.

Blood stains cover the pristine white wall, the curtains, the windows. Every centimeter of that room carries in it atoms those dreadful milliseconds between the click — a finger, trembling, as it presses the trigger — and the bang — a bullet lodging itself in someone’s head.

It was the third day in a row that Mr. Oh played that same game, alone in the basement of his house. He places the stool in front a cracked mirror, looks at his reflection in the eyes while he raises the gun to his own head, muzzle against his temple, and does not falter. He breathes deeply and pulls the trigger, only to sigh when nothing happens. His only wish is to keep pulling and pulling until the bullet is finally on the right chamber — click, bang, and then nothing.

But the moment between the first and the second tries is the moment when he can think about both his sons having to carry his body immobile like a sack of flour, and consequently when he gives up. For that day.

(he promised himself that, if on the sixth day, he were still alive, he would lock the handgun on the last drawer of the writing desk and let it rot there, if only steel could)

It’s Wednesday morning and the whole house smells of kimchi; Mrs. Oh calls her husband for breakfast but he doesn’t answer.

click, bang, and nothing.

Mrs. Oh slipper-clad feet don’t make a sound as she descends the wooden steps of the basement one by one; it’s not long before she finds her husband dead with what’s left his brown eyes still open, looking at the ceiling, waiting.

Click, bang, _scream_.

—

The call comes on the middle of a dancing practice — which is the only thing they do, to be quite honest, besides singing practice. It’s always dancing or singing or dancing _and_ singing; be it in korean, mandarin or japanese. Sehun is helping Jongdae move his left leg just the right way when his phone rings, the Star Wars theme that Jongin set as his ringtone engulfed by their new song playing on Yixing’s iPhone. It’s only 10 o’clock in the morning but their shirts are already damp, clinging to their backs like ivies in a wall.

Suho calls for a break when his back starts hurting again — it has been like this since Friday, after light fall right in the end of their new choreography. Everyone quickly lays down on the floor to rest just for a minute; Sehun picks his phone to look at the time, finds five missed calls from his mother and feels his chest tightening — she would never call him when she knows he’s busy.

He sneaks from the dancing room unseen, quickly walks to the bathroom and lets himself lean against one of the stalls before dialing her number. Sehun bites his nails while waiting, even if their manager told him a million times that he shouldn’t, that 22 year old idols can’t bite their nails like they are still children — but isn’t he the baby of the group? By the time he hears his mom’s voice, his left hand is a total mess.

She falters. Chit chats about the weather (cloudy), his niece (two months by the next Saturday), Vivi (apparently got the neighbour’s dog pregnant again). Sehun ruins the nails on his right hand before he finally says “Mom, I’m busy. Could you please just tell me why you called? We’re trying a really hard choreography right now and I have to go back as soon as I can.”

She sighs, like Atlas with the whole weight of the sky on her shoulders, too close to the breaking point. And then she tells him.

(it’s baekhyun who finds him, almost half an hour later, phone still pressed tightly against his ear)

—

Hushed whispers fill the practice room, even if Sehun is not there to hear them talking. Jongin excuses himself with a light touch on Junmyeon shoulders and almost runs back to their dorm, jumping through the stairs two steps at once. Baekhyun came from the bathroom looking like a truck had run over him, looking at the ground while explaining that something bad had happened at Sehun’s home and he needed some time by himself to sort his thoughts.

Jongin knows by experience that in times like that what Sehun needs the last is to be left alone with his whirlwind of a mind.

He is not in the living room or the kitchen, neither in any of the rooms. Jongin is about to shout his name when he hears the soft splash of water coming from the main bathroom, in the end of the hallway. He treads lightly, afraid of scaring him, and peeks his head through the half open door.

Sehun is inside the bathtub, filled to the brim, hugging his knees with his chin propped on them. He looks like a child trying to hide into himself, thinking that with enough wishful thinking he will vanish into thin air like some fairytale. Jongin thinks he could, if he wanted to. He could hold himself under the water and feel his lungs burning until he simply wasn’t anymore. It isn’t even that difficult.

“Hey,” he says, and his voice sounds like a wisp, a fragment of a thing, half broken and half nonexistent. “I thought Junmyeon would be the one coming. _He_ is the leader, you know.”

“Baekhyun said to us that you need some alone time,” Jongin says as he enters the bathroom, closing the door beside him for the case that they all decide to come and check on their maknae. “And besides, he may be the leader but _I’m_ your boyfriend.”

Sehun doesn’t say anything; instead he hums and runs his fingers through the water, creating ripples around him.

The thing about Jongin and Sehun is that they already passed through the words phase. Now, a quick glance or a sigh that is just one second longer than necessary is like a whole page of a book. He sheds his clothes — squirming a little when the chilly air enters in contact with his skin, but Sehun doesn’t laugh as he always does — and throws them in a corner before walking slowly to the bathtub, giving Sehun time to say _no_ , but there still isn’t a word coming off his mouth.

The water is already cold when he enters, slotting himself against Sehun’s back. His head rests against Sehun’s neck — _your spot_ , he would say — and he does the only thing he’s supposed to do: he waits

Sounds come from the front door. Jongin supposes it’s midday already, everyone coming back for lunch before another session of stressful practice. He circles Sehun’s slim waist with his arms, like he’s trying to protect him from an unknown threat. Maybe he is.

He counts one hundred and forty seven seconds before he hears Sehun’s voice again. “He is dead,” And Jongin wants to ask, but he knows better than interrupting his boyfriend’s line of thought. “My father. He just,” Sehun bends his fingers in the shape of a gun and points it to the wall in front of him, makes a clicking sound with his tongue. “You know.”

Jongin tightens the arms around him. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s the funny thing, you know,” and Sehun finally turns to him, lets Jongin see his face clear of any tear tracks. “I’m not sorry. It’s so strange, Jongin. And it’s not that I don’t feel sad because God help me I feel like shit right now. But I’m not _my father just died_ kind of sad, you know? I should be, but I’m not.” He stretches his legs, back flush against Jongin's chest, his heartbeat reverberating on two sets of ribcages. “I didn’t hate him, but I didn’t like him either.”

“It’s okay.” Jongin says, immediately regretting his words. “I mean, you don’t have to cry a river for him if you don’t feel like doing it. You don’t have to force yourself to anything, Sehun-ah. These things, they just… They’re different for each person.”

“Yes, I know. But the thing is— Jongin. The thing is that he had depression too, you know, just like me.”

 _Ah_ , Jongin thinks, and his fingers press hard against the sharp jut of Sehun’s hipbones. _Ah_ , he thinks, and the pieces do their light clicking inside his head. That’s why Sehun is in the water — not because he wants to disappear, but because if he doesn’t anchor himself to something, maybe he will.

“It means nothing,” he whispers, and shudders not because of the chill of the water but because of the one in his bones. “Nothing.”

“Or maybe it means everything,” Sehun says, for the first time raising his voice besides a whisper. He makes a gun with his finger, points to his own head; does not shudder. “Maybe it means the whole world.”

—

It is as hush hush as things can be. By the time Jongin finishes his lunch, Sehun already has his bag ready, and the two part ways on the corridor — Jongin kisses him lightly on the forehead, still afraid to push him, and Sehun noses his cheek affectionately before waving goodbye. He still has to talk to the manager, but it’s not like someone is going to prohibit him from attending his father funeral.

He trusts Jongin to explain the situation to the other seven, moves through the building like he’s just going out to buy bread or something equally mundane. He sees Jongdae when he’s almost on the front door, but the other remains oblivious. Maybe Jongin is waiting for them to finish the day practice so that he can crack the news. Either way, it is not his business — even if it is, more than anyone else’s.

(he wants to take the same bus he took with chanyeol during four years, to put his hand outside the window and feel the wind in the sleeves of his shirt. he wants to buy bubble tea from his favorite store downtown and walk vivi to the park without hearing the flashes of the cameras beside him

but he can’t, so he just calls a taxi)

His mother is waiting for him at the door already, but this time she does not smile when she sees him; perhaps this place is not home when his father isn’t there, and that makes him just a little bit sad. Sehun always wanted his father gone, but not like this, like he took the whole family with him, left them closer to the sea than to the shore. He wanted his father gone but not with a bullet to the head, pieces of brain splattered on the floor for his mother to clean up after. He wanted his father gone but he definitely didn’t want him to leave a warning for his youngest son.

Sehun neither liked nor hated his father, and he does not like and does not hate himself either.

—

Time passes slowly before them, a tortoise that never arrives to the finish line. Hands hover between phone screens, almost calling, but not brave enough to do it. EXO debuted almost five years ago — they all know each other like birth brothers, know that Sehun hates to be treated like a fragile thing, like a small baby (but isn’t he their baby after all?). And so they tap fingers against thighs, whisper on each others ears, practice and practice and practice.

They make twice the usual number of mistakes, but no one says a single thing.

Jongin can only think of Sehun, his Sehun-ah, on a black suit, carrying the body of his father inside a closed casket, lowering him to the ground, covering with soil until there’s no trace of him anywhere but inside his wife’s heart — ‘cause there’s no place for him in the heart of his sons.

He wants Sehun back, to hide him in the crook of his arms, wrap him with his body until they are just one person. He wants to unfold him piece by piece by piece by piece, memorize the bumps of his ribs and the dip of his bellybutton, the way he shudders when Jongin runs his hands by his sides. He wants to kiss Sehun until he forgets what even is a pistol, what is death; what is life. He wants to lay with him, side by side, breaths synchronized, while they wait for the world to end.

But he can’t and he won’t. Sehun hates phone calls, says they make him anxious, so Jongin sends him pictures of Chanyeol’s funny faces and puts heart emojis at the end of his texts. And he practices and practices and practices until his legs give him up, until they hurt so much as he thinks Sehun’s heart is hurting in that moment. At least, he thinks, they are together in this.

—

Sehun comes back the same way he went away: unseen.

By all means, he should be back on the Friday, when his bereavement leave ends, so no one expects him to pop up in the dancing room Thursday morning, still fresh off his father funeral. In fact, they are all so engrossed on the choreography that they only notice him when Jongdae asks for a pause and Sehun walks into the middle of them and sits side by side with Jongin.

“Hey,” he says, like he’s fine, which he is not. “Everything good?”

Jongin doesn’t have time to answer. One second they’re all with their eyes closed, heaving like they just finished a marathon, in the other everyone is talking at the same time, a cacophony of _how are you_ and _welcome back_ and _i’m sorry_ that Jongin knows for sure is driving Sehun crazy. How can he smile in a moment like this is a mystery. Baekhyun is at his side in an instant, hugging him by his back, and Sehun closes his eyes and hides himself in the crook of his neck like a baby — Jongin doesn’t have it on himself to feel jealous. He knows how much everyone was worried about their youngest.

“I’m fine, really.” Sehun says when the noise ends. “I mean, not a hundred percent, but, well. You know,” They don’t. Jongin wants to hold his hand, but he is afraid that Sehun will think it makes him look weak. “My mother is going to stay with my brother for a while, so I thought it would be best if I came back. With the new song coming soon and all.”

Junmyeon, always the thoughtful leader, the guardian angel, puts a hand on Sehun’s shoulder and squeezes. “Forget about the song, Sehun. It’s fine if you need a few more days to yourself, really.”

“I’m good, Junmyeon hyung. Trust me.” It’s a low blow and he knows it. Junmyeon purses his lips, but he is not going to tell Sehun that he doesn’t trust him, at least not now. He nods, instead, and tells everyone to get up. They only have three weeks before the new music video, and every hour wasted weights at their shoulders like a sin. Minseok walks to the notebook and the music starts playing again, a light tune full of magic and light, so unlike them now.

Just like that, everything is normal again. Jongin, as always, is the only one who sees Sehun’s mismatched socks, his legs trembling like he hasn’t slept in years. _Later_ , he says to himself, and again, he waits.

—

Later comes when the day turns and everyone is finally getting some well deserved sleep. Everyone except Jongin, who is looking at the ceiling, restless, legs tingling for him to just get up and do something. He is almost waking Kyungsoo to ask for one of his sleep pills when he hears a soft knock at his door, four times. It’s their code, the one they used since their trainee days, almost ten years ago. Four knocks mean _hey, i really need to talk with you_. They mean _right now_.

The Oh Sehun leaning against the wall is nothing like the Oh Sehun that walked into the practice room yesterday; no, this Sehun is just like the one Jongin found in the bathtub, eyes downcast, waiting for the water to come and drown him, so that he wouldn’t have to do that with his own hands.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Jongin asks him, even if the bags under Sehun’s eyes are answer enough. His boyfriend nods, once, and grabs him by the arm, feather light, like a child. Jongin wonders how he is keeping himself on his feet.

“Come with me.” Sehun says, dragging Jongin but not quite, because he does not have the strength for that and because he does not need it; because Jongin always followed him willingly, not even questioning him.

Because Jongin knows how Sehun ticks, knows that he needs this.

They end in the balcony, where the moonlight illuminates just enough that they don’t tumble against the furniture, but not enough that the difference between Sehun and Jongin’s skin tones becomes too obvious — black and white, the others used to say when they were side by side, until Sehun called them off, ask if they couldn’t please stop picking on Jongin’s skin color? It’s not funny at all. And if they didn’t notice it yet, it makes Jongin uncomfortable.

(he would never have the guts to tell them that, but sehun made it look simple, like a normal conversation between friends. and truly, they stopped with the whole kkamjong thing, even if he still doesn’t know if they did it for him or for sehun)

“You were supposed to stay home until Friday,” Jongin says when they both sit on the marble floor, legs dangling under the rail. He goes straight to the point his time, knowing that Sehun brought him here to talk specifically about that.

“You didn't want me to come?”

“Sehun-ah.”

He sighs. Stops moving. Like a photograph, or a dead person. “I tried, but everything in that house makes me anxious now. Seeing his things, knowing that they aren’t going to change anymore, that no one is going to use his clothes, play his old CDs, feed the birds in the fountain…” Sehun shakes his head and brings himself a little closer to the edge. “It’s like a hurricane brought the house down, but everything is still in place. We are the destroyed ones. Me, my brother. My mother, especially. She looks like a ghost, Jongin, and she always knew that was going to happen. Always.”

Jongin wants to say something, anything, but his tongue feels like lead inside his mouth, and he doesn’t think he could form a word even if his life depended on it. Instead, he scoots closer to Sehun until they are flush against one another, fingers intertwined on Jongin’s thigh.

“And that’s not the worse. You can live in a broken home; you can rebuild it, slowly, raise new walls, change the window’s glasses. It’s never going to be your old home, of course, but it can be whole again.” Sehun keeps getting closer and closer to the border of the balcony, looking at the street lights below them, shining like the stars they can never see on Seoul’s sky. “But all the time I was there, mother kept looking at me with those eyes of her, and I know the only thing she sees in me is father’s ghost. Like she’s just waiting for me to jump off the nearest cliff. I couldn’t stay. I wish I had, ‘cause she needs me, but I couldn’t.” He sniffles, the tears that didn’t come when his father died threatening to spill when he thinks about how they share the same future. “I knew I was going to be just like him, but what I didn’t knew was that he was going to be like _this_.”

He is almost at the edge now, more there than here, and Jongin thinks that this is it, he’s going to do it, his mother was right. The softest breeze could tip him off; he is going to fall, and at this height there isn’t even a minimal chance that he’s going to survive. He is going to fall and Jongin is going to scream and everyone will wake up and they’ll have to run to the streets and pick up his pieces and bury him in a closed casket and—

Sehun swings his legs and smiles.

“You’re going to fall,” Jongin says, slowly, not to scare him, because what if he turns and falls without even wanting? What if what if what if. “Sehun. You’re going to kill yourself.”

Sehun purses his lips, taps his fingers against the floor three times, thinks better of it. He’s back at safe ground in a second, on his feet, back against the rail metal, looking right at Jongin’s eyes like he wants to say _see? you are just like mother._

“Yes,” he says instead. It rings and rings and rings in the air like a confession. “But not tonight.”

And he walks away just like that, says he needs some sleep, that Jongin should go back to bed like it wasn’t him who brought Jongin there. Like it wasn’t him who left him, breath so quick he thinks he is going to faint, his head spinning, his whole body shaking, the longest ten minutes in his life passing before he can get up again without falling down. Or falling dead.

—

The last time Sehun was completely and utterly alone — but not lonely, no; he is most lonely when he’s surrounded with people — was exactly 18 hours ago (yes, he’s counting). It was blissfully quiet in his room after Junmyeon went to take a shower and he was left there, only because Junmyeon didn’t know he was already awake. Or that he hadn't slept at all.

But it was only for fifteen minutes (yes, he also counted them) before Kyungsoo opened the door and asked Sehun if they could switch their hair styling appointments because he was having a mild fever and everyone thought best if he could stay in bed for a while. Sehun’s appointment was the last one, so. Couldn’t he?

 _Yes, of course_ , Sehun answered, smiling, like he hadn't planned spending all the time until his appointment in bed either. It wasn’t like he could, anyway. Too suspicious. Someone might call the band psychologist and Sehun has met her so many times since his father died that he knows all her Enlightening Tips to an Anxiety-Free Life by heart — not that none of them work, seeing the overall status of everyone in this mess.

He sighs; does that a lot now, the sighing, like he’s on the verge of breaking really slowly or like he’s breaking already (also really slowly), and with each sigh a piece of him falls off. He sighs again when he thinks of that, shakes his head like his thoughts will go away and gets up. Takes a shower, eats with Jongdae, who’s going to the stylish with him — wants his hair different this time, tired of the same brown to black to brown again. Maybe he will ask for a rainbow hair, he says, like the one Sehun had in the Growl era. The thought of Jongdae looking like a parrot is almost enough to make him laugh — a real laugh, not the ones he’s been fooling them all with. Except for Jongin, of course. He never learned how to fool him.

(when they come back his hair is as black as ink, just as he likes it, and jongdae’s bright red shines whenever the locks catch a glimpse of light, which is different enough to make him so happy it stings)

He is used to not being alone. After all, in a house with nine people — and which used to have twelve — the hardest thing is finding a second to relax by himself. But now, he perceives a little too late, it’s purposeful. It’s not _oh, since we’re both here without anything to do, why not watching a movie?_ but _hey sehun, wanna check out this new series? hey sehun, wanna go to the new bubble tea place? hey sehun, i really need to moisturize my skin right now, mind if i enter the bathroom while you’re showering?_ It’s like hey sehun can you let us follow you through even second of the day, ‘cause we are all afraid that you might, i don’t know, like, kill yourself or something.

At 16:23, he wants to scream at Chanyeol while the both of them watch the fourth season of How to Get Away With Murder on his brand new notebook. At 17:35 he wants to lay his head on Yixing’s lap when the older brings him bubble tea from the parlor he refused to go two hours ago, wants to thank him eternally for being such a good hyung and taking care of him, really, they are all so good to him, thanks God for blessing him with eight guardian angels. At 18:47, he’s back at wanting to scream.

(“i know you’re all worried about me, but i’m fine, really,” he says to baekhyun, 20:17, the two of them sharing the last chocolate bar in the house. it’s bitter. sehun still doesn’t get why minseok buys bitter chocolate if the nine of them hate it, even minseok himself.

“you’re our maknae, we’re always worried about you,” baekhyun answers, dismissive, like this is the same worry of all the years before. sehun is tempted to agree with a quiet _yeah_ and just let it be, but the doesn’t.

“it’s different, hyung. it’s because of— well, i don’t really need to say it, do i?” his hand is lying on the table, and baekhyun reaches for it, squeezes lightly.

“don’t.”

“i’m just— this is. well. thanks.”

“anytime.”)

—

It is easy to pretend when they’re all together, talking or singing or dancing, when his head is so full of this, of EXO, that he can’t remember anything besides the roar of the fans every time they step on the stage. In a world where only the nine of them exist, life isn’t perfect, but it is, without doubt, worth living.

It’s when he’s alone that things get hard. When he’s under the covers and Junmyeon is sleeping soundly at this side, and he thinks that with enough maneuvering he can use the sheet as a homemade noose — not a good choice, though. He probably wouldn’t die fast as he wants, and if Junmyeon wakes up and sees _that_ he’s going to be treated like damaged goods until his next life. There’s the bathroom, but he doesn’t think he can hold himself underwater long enough, not with his lungs burning that way. Besides, he wouldn’t want anyone to find him dead inside a bathtub, hanging from a chandelier or lying on the bed with a empty bottle of pills at his side — Sehun doesn’t want to be found, period. If only he could disappear, pray for a magical fairy of death or something. Anything.

(he just doesn’t want to die like his father, already half dead for years, lying on his bed with the same stinky clothes for days and days, looking at the window as if there wasn’t anything harder in this world than getting up and walking to the door. sehun wants to life fast and die young, like kids say. he wants the beginning and the ending, not the in-between, the limbo he saw for so long until it feels like it’s part of him too)

It’s when he’s with Jongin that things get the hardest. When he switches rooms with Kyungsoo — who always says that he doesn’t care, really, that’s what friends are for, after all — and lies flush against Jongin’s side, feeling his heartbeat on the hand that he always lets lying atop his boyfriend’s chest. It’s steady, just like Jongin’s presence at his side, a rock, unmoving, _i’m here_ said with closed lips and closed eyes. It’s in times like these that Sehun wants to cry, let go of the waterfall that he’s been holding since before his father’s death — but he doesn’t want Jongin to worry, doesn’t want to see his face crumble while he tries to figure what to do and what to say, doesn’t want to make him sad. They have so many things to worry about, so many lyrics and choreographies to memorize, the world spinning too fast for boys who aren’t even twenty-five yet; Sehun is sad, but he will not bring anyone down with him.

He hides his face in Jongin’s neck, breathes the smell of almonds from the moisturizer that he uses since his trainee days and bites his lips until he tastes blood, but the only sound in the room is of Jongin’s quiet snoring, lulling him to sleep.

—

(“i don’t _snore_ , sehun!”)

—

After a month, everything seems to have fallen back into place again — yes, Kübler-Ross model, five stages of grief and etcetera; they all know that, know that one month isn’t nearly enough time to get over that fact that you father died, even less if he blew his own head with a gun, of course. But maybe it’s time enough to start recovering, if Sehun’s smiles are to be trusted.

Jongin, however, thinks otherwise.

Not so much thinks as _sees_ , truth to be told. Sehun thinks he can fool them with his laughing and his playing around, being the brat he was when they all started this, fine, he can fool them, Jongin will give him that, _fine_ , he’s really good at pretending life is all sugar and marshmallows again. Except for the fact it never was, on first place. That’s where Sehun slipped — he put a façade so perfect it got Jongin wondering if all the motives they had to be angry at the world were real.

It was only when he saw Baekhyun almost crying during practice because of the pain that has been haunting his back for days that he remembered that yes, they were as real as it gets.

For three days, he tries to catch Sehun alone and have a nice _pep talk_ , as Chanyeol likes to say, but the boy is outsmarting all of them since they were little trainees with bright smiles who thought idol life was a sure blessing. He knows that Jongin knows, and Jongin knows that he knows that he knows; it’s a cycle, unending, the snake trying to eat itself, and that’s exactly how Sehun wants it to stay. He knows Jongin didn’t want to draw attention to them, to _him_ , so he makes sure he is never alone. When he’s not laughing with Jongdae or rehearsing with Yixing or pestering Kyungsoo to teach him cooking — no one can even hear the words ramen ttang anymore — he’s dozing off on a chair, and the rule no. 6 forbids them to wake up anyone unless it’s really important (which ranges from _wake up, it’s your birthday!_ important to _wake up, there was an emergency_ important).

Sure, no one would think it was important enough to wake him up but wasn’t that the point? Make them all think he’s alright when he’s the most not-alright that Jongin has ever seen during a decade? And then prevent him from asking anything until it’s just more water under the bridge, until too much time has passed for him to start digging these things up and bringing them to light, until they can say _get over it, jongin_ and he won’t have another option but to agree.

He can’t tell them. Sehun is crumbling like a building on the epicenter of an earthquake, but he does not need eight scared men trying to hold his pieces with shaking hands and failing. He needs just one person, persistent enough to pick up the parts that already fell long before and glue them into place again with something stronger than calming words and soft hugs. And Jongin wants to, _needs to_ , be that one person — he isn’t a hundred percent sure that he can do it, less so do it _right_ , but if not him, then who?

(he does, then, the only thing left to do: he waits)

—

Opportunity presents itself on a silver platter two days later, when he finds Sehun laying alone in his room after lunch. One might think he is asleep and leave him to get his well deserved rest, but Jongin pays attention to the too quick rise and fall of his chest, to the white strings of his headphones peeking from under his t-shirt. He enters the room and locks the door behind him — even if rule no. 9 says _no locked doors unless it’s the bathroom_ , and no. 9.1, written in red and big letters says _no locked doors if jongin and sehun are alone inside, even if it’s the bathroom_ —, quietly so to not to be seen. He needs to be quick if he wants to hear the truth; can’t give Sehun the time he needs to raise his defenses, a barricade of lies so high no one even dares to climb it.

He _is_ sleeping, truly, head completely wrapped in what seems to be a terrific nightmare — one second he's fine, in the other he's whimpering, really, pinkish lips trembling as if he's about to cry. It's pitiful how he forces himself to walk everyday without shedding a single tear and now that he's deep and thorough in dreamland, defenseless like a little child, his body is ready to betray him. Jongin wants to pepper his eyelids with kisses until they flutter open to reveal beautiful brown eyes, the color of the soil when it rains, but he's afraid to scare Sehun even more so. He grips his shaking shoulders, holds him firmly in place so that Sehun doesn’t hurt himself when he starts trashing — which happens soon enough.

(and yes, sehun has nightmares from time to time; who doesn’t? still, jongin can’t shake off the feeling that something is slowly ripping his heart everytime he sees it happening)

"Sehun-ah, wake up. Wake up!" he says, softly at first and then louder when it doesn’t make effect, shakes his shoulders twice and is rewarded with a hand flying too close to his face. "Sehun!"

There’s a scream trapped in the end of his throat. It’s not heard but it’s felt instead, in that little white room with the shutters wide open, when Sehun opens his eyes — big and brown and scared like a deer in the headlights — and sees him.

“What?” he says, voice of someone who spent the last minute without breathing, which is a very solid possibility. Maybe he was running from something, trapped underground, lost in the middle of nowhere; the ordinary nightmares. Or maybe he was pointing a gun to his head. Jongin will never know.

“You were having a nightmare,” he answers faintly, stroking Sehun’s trembling arms while trying to maneuver him into a sitting position. “But it’s okay now, it’s over, Sehun-ah.”

Sehun nods, closes his hands into fists to stop the shaking and sighs, deeply, like he’s been holding that since before he went to sleep. Or before that, too.

“Get off, Jongin.”

 _Oh_ , Jongin thinks, so surprised he can’t even feel anything else, _okay then_. But he doesn’t get off in that second and neither in the next one, which forces Sehun to say his name again and snap him out off the daze.

“Sorry.” he says, sitting against the headboard, knee not close enough to bump against Sehun’s the way he likes to do, when the sun is shining and the sky is blue and Sehun doesn’t tell him to back off like that; which tends to be all days except that one, specifically.

“I just— need some space, I think.”

“Okay.” Jongin says it aloud this time, curls his fingers into the loose threads of his old sweater thinking about how he wants to feel Sehun’s messy locks with them. But he needs space and that’s okay, Jongin can understand that. Space. Which doesn’t mean he isn’t kinda offended by Sehun’s reaction, and which doesn’t mean he is happy about feeling that way. Honestly, he’s ashamed, but he can’t really process that at the moment.

They stay like that for some time; a minute or an hour, Jongin doesn’t bother to count. All he knows is that Sehun hides his face between his knees and begins with the breathing exercises they always do if they’re anxious before a concert. He can see the rise and fall of his back, quavering at first and then growing steady with time, the pressure of his long fingers against the soft material of his sweatpants. Sehun’s every bit a frame hanging in some fancy museum and, like all frames hanging in fancy museums, Jongin can’t touch him, can’t even come close enough to smell the fragrance of old paint and oil. And, in this case, fear.

“Why are you here?” Sehun asks when he seems to have calmed down, doe eyes peeking from between his legs. “When I was sleeping, I mean, why did you came?”

“I wanted to talk.” Jongin says, simply, like he wanted to talk about the weather or Minseok’s new diet, and not about his crippling fear that Sehun is falling into a pit too deep for anyone help him out when he starts to scream.

“Then talk.”

“No, forget it. It wasn’t that important, anyways.”

“You sure?”

And there it is, the moment he falters, almost says _no, we really need to talk_ and _please let me help you i don’t think you can do it alone_. It’s right there, on the tip of his tongue — w a i t i n g —, ready to be spoken, to be listened, to be _acknowledged_. It’s right there, but so are Sehun’s hands, still gripping his own knees so tightly his knuckles are white as a ghost; so is his face, still crumpled from sleep, the purple bags under his eyes looking almost black against skin that gets more and more pale with the week. He doesn’t look like someone who can get on his feet, much less have a serious talk about the impending hammer of depression and what else.

So he swallows all the things he still wants to say, all the doubts and all the accusations, all the questions and all the pleas. He buries them as deep as he can, locks them in some forgotten drawer in his mind and prays that he doesn’t have to open it for the next years — although he knows that just isn’t how things go. He knows, but he pretends he doesn’t.

There’s a tiny smile on his lips as fake as the plastic daisies on the living room.

“Sure,” is what he says.

—

Sehun still remembers that first day, the first piece of domino to fall. His brother liked to call it the _day of the broken_ , but that was before he noticed that they were all from the same mold, and the illness of one is the illness of the others. Like father, like children.

The snow covered his shoes, the new ones, with the lights that came alive with every step, all of Seoul covered in pristine white like a fairytale. He couldn’t walk to school, not with the city like _this_ , so he had to wait for his father to give him a ride — which was totally lame, because he liked the time he spent talking with his colleagues in the way to school, the jokes, the complaints, the one person who always forgot to do their homework. But it was going with his father or not going at all, and there was this mathematics group assignment that he spent the whole yesterday doing — no way he was going to throw away all those hours now.

He waited then, a minute turning into ten, into thirty; surely everyone is entering the classroom right now, but there was no sign of his father in the kitchen or in the bathroom. His brother’s shoes squeaked the more he paced around the living room, waiting and waiting and waiting. His mother was gone too, inside the master room. Sehun couldn’t hear anything besides the squeak of the shoes and his own breathing.

(he wasn’t even nervous at the time, and that, he thinks almost ten years later, was because some part of him always knew what was destined to happen, sooner or later)

It was his mother who came through the hallway and took the two of them to school without really answering their questions. His brother could only stand to be ignored until they were already half the way to the school, and the rest of the path was traveled in a silence so heavy the three of them felt like they were drowning in their own personal misery. In some way, they _all_ knew.

Here’s the resume: his father is (was) depressive. Always has been, since before they were born, since before he met their mother, even. It’s a family thing, he said, once, when Sehun was curious about the white and blue pills he took every morning after breakfast. His grandmother was depressed also, and so was his great grandfather, which meant that, unfortunately, Sehun was probably going to be depressive too. _Sorry_ , his father also said, eyes downcast and full of something which 7 year old Sehun didn’t knew. Soon, though, he would understand.

And understand he did, when he came back home and saw his father still on the bed, as if he hadn’t get up to work at all. You can fool a seven year old kid, but not one on his twelves, so his mom doesn’t try the _it’s just a cold_ excuse again — she’s tired, too. He understood when his father didn’t get up all week and they had to take food to his bed so that he wouldn't die of starvation; when the letter from the company his father worked at came; when his mom started pulling her own hair due to stress; when there were so many bills he could make a pile with them. _Ah, so that’s depression_ , he thought.

_So that’s me._

—

There are things Sehun knows he will never forget, no matter how many years he still gets to live, and the thrill of a concert is one of them. It’s unbelievable, in a way, knowing all those people came there just to see them when they aren’t more than nine too tall boys who still bicker over who’s going to do the dishes and who’s going to clean the bathroom. Just thinking about it makes him weak in the knees, mind all fuzzy around the edges like cotton candy. It can’t be real and yet, here it is.

He thinks about them, 17 year old girls dancing wildly in their rooms while one of their songs plays on YouTube, cheering at their every movement on the stage, snapping dozens of pictures of them at the airport, and feels like his heart is going to explode any day by now, because there’s no way he can hold all that affection, that devotion, for long. Baekhyun is the guy for this kind of task, with his easy smile and playful expression. Or Jongdae, with his voice of an angel and arms always open to anyone who wants them. For them, that’s only normal — they give, and they take back. They know how to love, and how to be loved.

Although it must be easy, Sehun thinks, for these girls to love him when he’s just a beautiful guy with some smooth moves, a shy smile on thin lips, long legs and a narrow waist. Easy, surely, when all the closest they can get to him isn’t more than 10 seconds in a fansign, if they’re lucky.

They don’t have to see him biting his hand to stifle the screams that are threatening to overflow or hear his muffled cries against the pillow. They don’t have to help him when he’s shaking, breathless, lungs burning him from inside out, nor haul him off the bed when he doesn’t have the willpower to move a single muscle. They can’t even imagine.

They don’t love him, not truly. They love the cute guy who does aegyo on TV shows, but he’s not the real Sehun. They love a façade; a lie.

His hands shake around the mic and thanks God that his only line was right at the beginning of the song, because he doesn't think he’s able to talk right now, much less sing. He feels like floating, like he is watching his own body from the stars; and the only thing he can think is that hey, these girls don’t really love him, but how can he say he loves them if he doesn’t even know their names?

Sehun wasn’t even supposed to be there, after all. He never wanted to be an idol, not truly, like Jongin and Baekhyun. He only went that road because he couldn’t stand being at home anymore without feeling the clock’s ticking engraved on the backside of his head; didn’t have the guts to tell his mother to stop referring to his father as if he was going to get up all of sudden and everything would be back the way it was. Now his father is seven feet under the earth and Sehun wonders how would have been to spend more time with him, to be a better son, to try and help him instead of just sitting on the foot of his bed with his headphones on, waiting for a miracle to happen.

(sometimes he wonders where he would be right now if he had refused, if he hadn’t been so selfish and instead stood behind with his mother to pick of the pieces of their family while she adapted to work; he would’ve been in college, just one among countless others, and maybe, he thinks, just maybe, that would’ve been better)

“Sehun-ah, are you ok?” he hears Baekhyun saying, but he doesn’t process it, not really. Either way, Baekhyun isn’t talking with him but with the Sehun he’s watching from above. Are they the same? Are they not? He doesn’t know, doesn’t care to. “Sehun-ah!” Baekhyun repeats, give Sehun-on-the-ground’s arm a light pinch and yes, Sehun-on-the-stars’ surely felt that. They are the same then.

He can feel himself slipping from the clouds, the peaceful silence being replaced by the gradually increasing sound of a million screams. Baekhyun’s hand is on the curve of his elbow, squeezing hard enough to bring him back from wherever he was, the pain making itself felt even through the layers of cotton he felt surrounding his mind. “What?” he says, no doubt that this is really his voice, that this is him who is speaking. “I’m fine, I’m fine.”

“Sehun-ah, you’ve been standing in the same place for, like, five minutes” he says, hand running up and down Sehun’s arm. “Hang in there, it's almost over.”

“I don't think I can— Talk to them. The fans.”

“It’s okay, I’ll handle it. Just breathe.”

And breathe he does, or tries to, while Baekhyun, still glued to his side, says that Sehun’s throat is a little sore after today and speaks for the both of them. He can feel the worried looks of the other members at this back of his neck while they change into clean clothes after showering, sees Junmyeon having an internal debate when they’re already in the car about whether to ask him about what happened or not. Before he decides, though, Baekhyun drapes himself over Sehun like he's the world's skinniest blanket, all knees and elbows and the jut of his hipbones against the supple flesh of Sehun’s thigh.

While everyone takes the time to get a little sleep, Baekhyun makes small talk all the way back to the dorm, head hidden in the curve of Sehun’s shoulder, their fingers intertwined; and Sehun wants to thank him, truly, but all he can do is look at the stars and wonder if he didn’t forget a piece of himself with them.

—

The sun is almost set when Junmyeon shakes everybody from where they’ve been catching a little rest after the day’s activities and uses his best leader tone to call for an urgent meeting in the dining room. Sehun’s is oh so conveniently on an appointment with the shrink right now, which means he won’t even know what happened.

“Which is good,” Junmyeon says when everyone is seated, the empty space next to Jongin where Sehun should have been almost painful to look at. “Because we are going to talk about him.”

They only had this type of meeting two times since they debuted — the first when Yifan left the group and they were all so scared that even Junmyeon started crying in the middle of it, and the second when Zitao went away; that one was more of a drinking contest than a reunion, everyone trying to be drunk and forget that they were never going to be 12 again, _whole_ again. They were one quarter shorter than when they started, and damn if that didn’t shake them to the bones and back.

“I know we shouldn’t have this conversation behind his back like that, but,” he begins, fidgeting with his nails while looking from one member to another. “He would just say that he’s fine or something, which we all know it’s not true. Netizens are already talking about the show yesterday, how he was just standing there looking at nothing for some solid five minutes until Baekhyun snapped him out of it. They’re wondering if he’s sick.”

“He seemed like… Like he was sleeping, or daydreaming. Even when he, like, came back to normal, he still didn’t look at me.” Baekhyun said, looking at his hands, looking like he was spilling his darkest secret. “Also in the car, when we were coming back, I spent all the road trying to make him talk, but he was just looking outside the window. Sometimes he would squeeze my shoulder, but that was it. It was like talking with a statue.”

Everyone nodded alongside his story, mouths tight and eyes closed. Minseok sighed deeply before speaking. “I caught him smoking on the balcony three days ago.” All faces lit up a that, Jongdae’s hand coming over his mouth to cover the gasp he lets through. “I freaked out at first, but he kept telling me that was his only cigarette and that he really needed something to de-stress 'cause he felt like he was going to burst. I could see his hands _shaking_ , there was no way I would have said anything, so I turned around and left like I hadn’t seen a damn thing. Just don’t tell him, okay? I swore I wouldn’t say a word about this, specially to Jongin.”

At that, Jongin perks up. “Why me?”

“He doesn’t want to worry you.” It's Kyungsoo who answers him, corners of his heart-shaped lips turned low. “Sehun doesn't want to worry anyone, but he knows that you’ll feel more obliged to help him than anyone here. You know that he hates even the idea of burdening someone.”

“But he— he doesn't even talk to me anymore! Not really,” _at least_ , he thinks, _if moaning doesn't count_. “There are days when he doesn't even let me _touch_ him, and then at night he sneaks under my covers like he didn't spend the entire day ignoring me. And I don't know what to do; I want to give him a taste of his own medicine but then he comes and— and I miss him so much I can't turn him down. I just can’t.” Jongin hides his head of his hands after speaking, waiting for the headache who's already knocking at his brain’s door. He feels useless having to admit that to everyone, like he’s the world’s worst boyfriend or something.

“It isn’t just you.” Chanyeol says, grabs his hand and squeezes, reassuring. _It’s different,_ Jongin almost says back, _I’m dating him for almost four years i_ have to _help him or die trying_. “He barely even looks at me anymore. I don't think he even notices what he’s doing, though. With us. Most of the time he seems lost inside his head. One day I saw him so entranced that his phone started ringing right next to him and he didn’t even heard it.”

“Did you know he’s not taking his medicine anymore?” Yixing asks them all, but his eyes are fixed on Jongin, and it feels like an accusation. “He told me he was going to ask for a change because the one he was taking gave him these horrible headaches, but I haven’t really seen him taking any meds after that.”

“You mean his father killed himself and Sehun isn’t even taking his damn medicine? Jesus Christ,” Jongdae says, fingers massaging his temples as if that would make it all go away. “It’s so much worse than we thought.”

“Alright,” Junmyeon says, catching everyone’s attention to himself again. He’s the leader, he needs to take care of  them. “We need to do something. Couldn’t we talk to his shrink and see if he really changed his meds? And then after that we should all talk to him together, like this. He needs to know that we are his friends, that we want to help him, that we are here for him whenever he needs”

Jongin purses his lips before speaking. “He knows this, but he wants to overcome all this by himself. Don’t you understand?” It’s all obvious to him now. “He isn’t the child he was when he began. He won’t go running to his hyungs at the first difficulty, not anymore. And we can’t help someone that doesn’t want to be helped.”

“But we _have_ to.”

“Don't you think I tried?”

“So we just watch him fall apart?”

“I think we should stop things for a while.” Baekhyun’s voice is so low it’s almost a whisper. “Like a hiatus, but not— Maybe a month or two. Sehun could go home, stay with his mother. He’s too stressed anyway, I don't think he can handle a comeback right now.”

The worse is that no one speaks against him, no one says _wait, is this really necessary?_ They all know it is.

“I don't think he’ll want it, though.” Jongin feels bad, discussing Sehun’s future when he wasn’t around, but it’s not like they had a lot of choices at hand. “Last time we talked about it he said his mother’s been treating him like he’s on the verge of killing himself too. His brother’s also too busy with his newborn baby for Sehun to stay with him. I know it sounds strange, but the best for him is to stay here with us.”

“He could go with you to your home. I mean, it’ll draw even more attention if everyone leaves the dorm, but it’s not like we have much of a choice. Your family knows about you two, don’t they?”

Jongin only nods with his eyes closed, mind already racing, thinking about how they’ll convince Sehun to do it, how _he_ ’ll convince Sehun to do it. He knows he won’t bend easily, will try to make them believe he’s fine, really, why is everyone worried about him?

But he has to see it, right? Even if he doesn't want to. It’s impossible that he doesn't notice he's killing himself (ha!) this way, crumbling until there’s no more of him. Until he’s just his father risen from the ashes.

He wants so much to believe it will work — it’s not like they’ll be able to go out on dates and such, but at least they could cuddle in bed all day, Jongin’s lips on the smooth skin of Sehun’s shoulders, their legs intertwined until they get sweaty and have to get up. They would shower together then, one washing the other, Jongin smiling all the time — and maybe Sehun wouldn’t smile, not in the beginning, but give them a week or so together, just the two of them, and he was sure he would see his lips curving in that little smile he learned to love above anything.

Yes, Baekhyun is right, for once. Everything would be alright again; not quite the way it was before, of course, you can’t just turn back time, you can’t pretend things never happened, even if that’s exactly what you need. Not quite the way it was before, but maybe, Jongin allows himself to wish, just maybe, they could be better.

It is all very wishful thinking. He knows that, but there is a flicker of hope in his heart that makes him warm all over, a white light that lets him believe — hush, my dear boy, it will be fine.

“I wasn’t aware I left the group, but damned if _this_ isn’t as good as a warning I’ll ever get.”

(and then it fades)

They all turn their necks at the same time, like a very old and predictable movie — but instead of a slow-motion scene with some ominous music on the background, it’s quick as a lightning falling down on their heads, and just as powerful.

Sehun is standing against the sink, hands in his pockets, and he could almost pass for Marlon Brando in one of his black and white movies if he wasn't so angry Jongin can see his shoulders shaking with the strength he’s holding himself still. Every face in the dining room is fixed at him like a magnet, and he’s holding them all in his grasp, doesn’t say another word, just looks at them and waits for the fall out.

Kyungsoo is the first to yield, raising his arms like a thief who’s catch red-handed. “Sehun, we’re just trying to help you.” He tries to smile but fails, his worry to engraved in his face to let him. “We’re are all very concerned about you since the past few months and we—”

“You thought it would be a good idea to talk about me when I can’t say anything to defend myself, right?” The words tumble out of his mouth even before Kyungsoo finishes, and God, doesn’t he seems the calmest of them right now, like wood on still water, and if they didn’t knew him they would think he didn’t gave a single fuck about all that. “Yeah, sure, _let’s all sit with our heads close together and whisper about everything that’s strange with Sehun lately because that is really going to help him!_ Jesus Christ, what a _great_ idea, you all. Fucking _congratulations._ ”

“Look, it isn’t like that and you know it.” Junmyeon says, trying to make things right, like they aren’t wrong in the first place, like Sehun has no reason to be furious with them. “We’re just— Sehun, I know you don’t want to make us worried, but you’re part of us. You can’t just shut yourself up and suffer through this alone, you know? You’re our maknae, we’re here for you, anytime. But we need you to talk to us.”

It’s a state of suspension, eight people waiting for the answer of one — who could both save them or tip everything over the edge.

“I’m not suffering.” His hands are gripping the backrest of Jongin’ chair, trying to look casual, but his knuckles are almost white. “And I don't know what you’re talking about.”

“Sehun, please.” Baekhyun pleads with his sweetest voice.

“What? I’m serious. I don't know why you all saying that I’m suffering ‘cause I am _not_. The only thing that’s making me not fine is coming home and seeing this shit right here.”

“Then what was that at the show, huh? And the hiding in the bathroom, and the scratching your arms until they’re red all over, and the fucking smoking,” Baekhyun says so _so_ painfully, almost as if he's on the verge of crying. “Do you really want us to believe you’re okay when even a child could see you're not? We’re your goddamn friends, we won’t let you be miserable all by yourself just because you, _wrongly_ , think it is the best way of dealing with this.”

“So now you all are fucking spying me, that’s it? And what is _this_ , exactly?” He asks, tone so fucking dangerous Jongin almost shudders.

“Sehun-ah,” and it’s Jongin who says it, tired of just listening and doing nothing, of knowing Sehun will remain on the defensive, denying everything they’re saying until someone hits him where it really hurts. And none of them have to courage to do that with their little maknae, their baby, no one except him. “You were always scared of becoming like your father. You always through you would end up like him, bound to a bed day and night, depressed to the point you couldn't even do little everyday things, like eating or taking a shower. But it was fine— not real fine, but hey, you had some 10 years or so to get used to ideia. You accepted it, _embraced_ it, even. But this,” Jongin turns around in his chair, looks at Sehun in the eyes and for the first time in that afternoon he sees some kind of emotion in his face. He looks so small, eyes begging Jongin to stop so that he can almost hear his _don't tell them_ plea stuck on his throat.

For a fraction of a second Jongin loses courage, almost leaves it just at what has been already said, almost. And then — _and then!_ —, he remembers how he found Sehun inside the bathtub that first day, when everything fell down on them, the way he made a finger gun and pointed it at his own head.

He remembers, and the set of his jaw is all the answer Sehun needs.

“This, your father killing himself, it just breaks everything you had planned, it turns everything upside down, doesn’t it? And now everything you see is you with a gun pointed at your head and it makes you so scared, Sehun. You’re fucking _terrified_.”

“ _Shut up_ ,” he says, voice tight, and it’s like there’s only the two of them in the room, Jongin rubbing salt in his wound until it’s not salt anymore but battery acid. “Just shut the fuck up, Jongin.”

He doesn't. “And you know what’s worse? That’s exactly how you’ll end with if you keep up like this.”

It’s a state of suspension — but time stops too late, and they’re already falling, the edge of the cliff long lost beneath their feet.

Jongin doesn’t hear the gasps around him. Sehun’s face is on the verge of murderous, torn as he is between breaking Jongin’s neck or breaking his own. He can hear the sound of the blood rushing to his head like a waterfall, Jongin’s words reverberating through it as if they are a  prophecy. Everything he doesn’t want to hear and everything he needs to.

(and jongin knew it, knew his words were going to break him, knew sehun could handle anyone saying that, even his mother and his brother, but not him — he knew and he said it, anyway

he wasn't content with just sticking a knife through his belly, no, that wasn't enough — jongin had to twist it)

“You don't know anything.” Sehun says, and God he's not angry anymore. He's furious, his cheeks tinted red, hands out of his pockets and closed into fists so tight the bones protrude almost painfully out of it. “All of you! What the fuck— What do you think you know about me, huh? You with your fucking neurotypical little brains and your perfect families and just— Your fucking lives, they’re so— Jesus.” His hands are threading through his hair, black strands falling down under the pulling. “If _I_ don’t have a fucking idea about what’s going through my head right now what makes you think you know it, huh? The truth is that all of you just want to _save me_ or some other bullshit; you want to show the world how you’re all so amazing when poor Sehun was so _so_ sad because his stupid father shoot himself in the head. _Don’t worry little maknae, your amazing hyungs are going to pick up your pieces and everything is going to be fine again!_ ”

“Sehun, wait—” Junmyeon tries to say, but it’s too late now, too late to do any other thing than listening and accepting, yes, because Sehun is right. They thought themselves some kind of saviors, forgot Sehun’s illness isn’t something that goes away with kind words and two or three hugs.

Reality is always ten times harder, so they just closed their eyes to it.

“Why don’t you say anything now? It’s because I’m right, isn’t it? I don’t know why I didn’t thought this would happen, really. It’s always the same thing, you’re just some selfish fuckers like everyone. Even you,” His fingers pointed at Jongin’s face, trembling, the worst accusation he has ever faced; but as everyone’s eyes are downcast, Jongin meets his stare and doesn’t falter. “I trusted you more than anyone. You’re worse than all of them, Jongin.”

“You can say what you want, I’ll not just sit idle while you kill yourself day after day.” Jongin says, and now Sehun isn’t the only one fuming in the room. Jongin stands too and, for a second, he seems taller. “I’m trying to take care of you, can’t you see it? You said it, you know you’re crumbling and— Aren’t you gonna do anything? Will you just wait for it to come, like before?

“I don’t need anyone taking care of me,” he says instead of answering, his teeth clenched so hard they can almost hear the noise of it.

But there isn’t a single tear in his eyes.

“Well, I’m going to do it whether you need it or not, and I don’t care if you think I’m just a selfish fucker or whatever. I’m doing this because I love you and—”

“I don’t need anyone to take care of me!” Sehun yells, nostrils flaring with the amount of emotion he’s trying to contain. He looks like a cornered animal ready to pounce on his predator with the last thread of hope. Even Jongin is taken about by the force of it, mouth closing shut, eyes wide open. All eight pairs of eyes are fixed on Sehun as he gives up, collapsing in front of them, voice low and raw “Go to hell, all of you. I don’t want to look in your faces ever again.”

None of them move while he turns his back on them, feet stomping the wooden floor as he makes his way back to the door from where he came not even half an hour ago. Half an hour, and they managed to make everything a thousand times worse than what it already was; Half an hour, and now they can only look at their hands in despair and think _what now?_

Sehun slams the door on his way out, rattling the paintings in the wall. Inside, Jongin follows them, whole body shaking while he sits and try to gather his pantings into normal breaths. There are hands on his shoulders, on his hair, soothing words being whispered in his ears and a cup of chamomile tea in front of him, scalding hot. None of that can shake the feeling settling in his heart that this time the damage he did is too deep to be repaired.

(sehun didn’t cry; later, in his room, jongin does that for him)

—

“I know that we have to wait at least 48 hours before going to the police, but considering that he’s famous and all don't you think they might make us an exception?”

Baekhyun is hugging his knees while he watches TV to distract himself from the 30 unanswered calls he made to Sehun since the day before. The tear tracks on his cheeks are long gone, but inside his chest the turmoil remains the same.

They're all shaken in their different ways — Chanyeol mops in his room, Yixing spends all day with his notebook under his arm, composing, Kyungsoo buries his nose in an incredibly thick book, Junmyeon worries about the rest of them ten times more. And Jongin just looks at the wall, the ceiling, the curtains, the pattern of the blanket draped across his shoulders. He looks but he doesn't see, mind reeling at high speed with thoughts of Sehun and where he might be, his physical state, his _psychological_ state. He’s so worried he doesn't even mind concealing it any longer.

“He was clearly out of his mind when he left, and it has been, what, 26 hours by now? 30?” Baekhyun continues with his monologue, knowing very well that everyone has their head so full of suspicions and predictions they won't even hear him. “I mean, he's depressed and he's without his medication, that has to count for something. Some kind of urgency. What if he was _kidnapped_?”

Junmyeon comes from the kitchen with a bowl of ramen in his hand. “Baekhyun, you're not helping. I’m sure Sehun’s coming back, he just needed to cool off a bit after yesterday. Don't make us more stressed than we already are.” He turns his face to Jongin and puts the bowl on the sofa’ armrest. “When was the last time you ate?”

 _Yesterday's lunch_. “I don't know.”

“I know for sure it was before all _that_ , so come on. You need to eat.”

“I'm not hungry.” Tired, yes, maybe a little bit angry still, and definitely sad, but not hungry.

“Listen to your hyung, Jongin. Eat it; I won’t have anyone starving in this house.”

“Fine,” he says, too drained to complain. He doesn’t remember sleeping last night either.

It’s not even five minutes later when Baekhyun scoots closer to him and wriggles himself under the blanket. “What if someone stole his phone and he is lost somewhere and can’t call us to pick him up?”

“Baekhyun.”

“I'm serious,” he mumbles, mouth pressed again the fabric of Jongin’s sweater. “and perhaps too worried. Should I call him again?”

“He won't answer.”

“You’re right,” Baekhyun says. The sigh that leaves him is nothing short of exhausted. “But if I don’t do anything I think I might go crazy.”

Jongin knows that feeling well enough, standing still as he is, waiting. It’s all he’s ever done, wait and wait and wait, for the right moment to say something or to do something or to be something. He takes a deep breath and wishes himself to stay calm like the phantom of dawn while time passes and he lies in wait (and he waits and waits and waits).

Now, though, the deathlike state of them all leaves his arms and legs tingling, eager for action of any kind, minimal as it may be. He can’t wait no longer — already spent 23 years like that and it’s not enough anymore, can’t be enough —, there must be something, anything, that he can do.

And then — again, _and then!_ — he connects the dots in his head all of sudden, traces a path where before there was nothing.

He remembers — Sehun's head slotted against the crook of his shoulder, kinda like Baekhyun is now, perky nose nuzzling against his neck; the blanket covering them like a protection against a world that wanted them hidden underground like cockroaches. And the tiny smile that would worm itself into his face when Sehun ended up sleeping against his body so that after he could say _you're my favorite pillow ever._

And simply like that — simply like _them_ — he knows where to search.

Jongin is on his feet in a fraction of second, almost bringing Baekhyun down with him, grabs the nearest pair of shoes he can find. "I think I know where he is," They're too big on his feet, but he can't calm himself enough to look for one of his. "If anyone asks say that I'll try to bring him back, but no promises.”

“Wait, what? You won’t even tell me where are you going?”

“I don’t know if he’ll really be there, so… Wish me luck.” he says, not bothering to pick a umbrella before opening the door. The rain is light, and he can’t waste a minute longer.

“At least give me a call!” Baekhyun shouts after him, but Jongin is already gone.

—

He only saw that dark blue door once, when Sehun brought him there for their one week vacation, almost two years ago. He remembers how scared he was, heart racing with the perspective of meeting Sehun’s family, of being subjected to their judgmental stares. What if they hated him? What if they hated Sehun for what they were doing? But there, at his side, was the solid weight of Sehun leaning into him, their fingers intertwined, heads too close to be a _just friends_ thing, until they heard the soft footsteps of Mrs. Oh coming to greet them.

Now he’s alone. The rain progressed from a light drizzle to a scary torrent and he’s shivering from head to toe when he hears the soft footsteps again, not even five seconds after he pressed the doorbell. He’s shivering because of the cold but also because he’s afraid — Sehun might not be there, he could have read it all wrong, thought he knew his boyfriend just to have his hopes crushed under karma’s giant heels.

Despite his worries, the door opens wide when the eyes behind it recognize his face. “Jongin! Is that really you?” Mrs. Oh asks, face breaking into a wide smile. “It has been so long, doesn’t it? Come on, enter. You’ll catch a cold if you continue standing there like a statue.”

“I’m— thanks.” He says, taking off the too big shoes he’s using as soon as he’s inside. The interior of the house is just as it was when he visited, all cozy in its warm brown tones; the flame from the heart keeping the temperature pleasant. And beside it, on a small brown and gold table, there’s a picture that Jongin himself took in his stay there, Sehun holding a newly bought, three months old Vivi in his arms.

“Oh, you don’t need to worry. If you’re looking for Sehun, he’s in the kitchen. I’ll leave you alone to talk, but please ask him to pour you some tea, will you?”

“Of course, Mrs.” he answers, bowing slightly as she puts her raincoat on before leaving. Still, he doesn’t go to the kitchen right away, not until he hears the rumbling of the car’s engine starting up and not until he organizes a few of his thoughts into something coherent enough for it to come out of his mouth.

He only takes three steps before he stops at the kitchen’s entryway, his eyes falling over the mop of black hair between Sehun’s arms. And it’s only been a day, really, 28 hours or so to be more exact, but he feels his chest blooming with the sight ahead of him. Longs legs folded under the chair, a single stripe of skin where the hoodie is ridded up on his back, brown eyes appearing slowly as he raises his head.

Jongin drinks at the sight like a man who spent a month wandering in a desert.

“Hey,” he says. So unsure, so incertain.

“Hey,” Sehun also says, with that tiny smile of his, thin lips stretched tightly over his teeth. “Sit. Want some tea?”

“Yeah.” He sits on the chair in front of Sehun, even if what he really wanted was to sit at his side. “Look—”

Sehun quiets him with a shush while he's still pouring the tea into a little cup, the steam rolling off slowly to the ceiling. It's too hot but Jongin takes a sip anyway, burning the tip of his tongue in the process.

“I knew you would find me here,” Sehun says while he pours another cup of tea, this time for himself. “Guess I should have gone to my brother’s house, but who knows, maybe I wanted to be found.”

Jongin can’t help the smile that graces his lips. “Maybe.”

They drink their teas without a word, the only sound in the room being the rain falling down against the windows. Even though the peace is almost a blessing to them, there are too many things to be said, things that build up inside Jongin’s throat to the point he’s almost breathless.

“Look,” Jongin says again, licks his lips while trying to find the right words to express himself. “I’m sorry for what we did. For what _I_ did. I was so set up in helping you that I didn’t even cared to ask if you wanted to be helped, first of all. And I definitely shouldn’t have talked about you with the others without you being there to tell us how you were really feeling. It was really selfish, just like you said.”

“I wasn’t nice to you either,” Sehun says, eyes downcast, fingers tracing the rim of his cup. “I knew it wasn’t working, the whole _don’t let everybody worried_ idea, but I kept pretending it was, more for my sake than yours. Don’t you get that feeling sometimes that if you think with enough force that something is true, then it will really become true, sooner or later? That’s what I tried to do and it ended fucking everyone up, not just me.”

“But it was your choice. I mean, even if we didn’t like it, we had to respect it, _which we didn’t_.”

He shrugs. “You were just trying to be good friends, I guess. Of course there were better ways, but hey, you’re still neurotypical guys who don’t know very well how to deal with this kind of shit. That’s fine, though; you can learn.” Sehun raises his eyes from the table, stares right at Jongin, at his full lips and the bump of his nose and finally at his brown eyes he came to know so well. “And you’re not the only ones at fault. I was too harsh with you yesterday, when I said those things. You know I didn’t meant them, right? I was too mad to think clearly. Even more when you said those things.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine, I think I needed that. You know, I came here to talk with my mom; not about what happened exactly, but, like, about feeling like I have already seen my downfall written out in father’s bones.” He takes a deep breathe at that, pinches the bridge of his nose before going on. “So, it happens that she doesn’t really see me as the next him, as I thought, and this made me feel a bit better ‘cause if it’s just me who thinks like that, well, I might be wrong? I hope. We talked a lot about him, in general, and his depression and the years that he spent bedridden and the years before that. And it was like taking something off my shoulders, you know, because I always thought I was carrying the burden of our illness all alone. Well, I was, actually, but I don’t have to. I don’t have to _be_ him. I can be myself, and of course, the depression is going to be a part of me forever, a part that I shared with him, a part that _reminds_ me of him. But it doesn’t have to be all I am.”

And God, how much Jongin wants to say something, to get up and hug the fuck out of him, to cry, even. He feels tears blurring his vision and quickly looks to the ceiling, blinking so that they don’t fall, not now when all he wants is to bask with the sight of Sehun before him, this Sehun who’s trying to fight back, this Sehun who knows he’s more than a shadow of his father, who knows that he is the only thing he can fully control.

(and this makes him so happy, so _overjoyed_ , like he’s about to burst)

“Jesus, are you crying? For real?” Sehun says but his tone is playful and the smile on his lips shows the white of his teeth. “I’m the one who should be tearing up over all this revelation shit, not you.”

Jongin can’t stop his tears from falling, but it’s okay, because Sehun’s is right at his side, his careful hands drying them as soon as they reach his cheekbones, lips pecking the tip of Jongin’s nose again and again.

“I’m sorry,” he says, not even feeling ashamed for the way his voice breaks in the middle of the words. “I’m just— I don’t know. I was so scared after yesterday, scared that you would hate me because of what I did and— But then I come here and I find you so... Peaceful, you know? God, I’m so happy for you.”

Sehun laughs, eyes shining just like Jongin learned to love them. “You’re the biggest sap _ever_.”

“Only for you.”

“See? This was the sappiest thing you could’ve said.”

Jongin only nods, his throat too tight for him to say anything else. Sehun continues his job of distributing light pecks across his face until Jongin pulls him into his lap and brings their lips together in a real kiss. Sehun parts his lips slightly and Jongin takes that as an invitation to slip his tongue inside, and all the while his hands hold Sehun’s waist so tenderly, like they spent a month apart and not just a little more than a day.

“Hey,” Sehun says, a little breathless, when they stop for air. “Do we really have to go home now? I still have to prepare mentally for all the apologizing I have to make after telling everyone to go to hell.”

Jongin scrunches his nose like he’s thinking really hard on the matter, which earns him a playful nip on his jawline. “I guess they can wait a little longer? But I’ll have to call Baekhyun sooner or later.”

“Later, then. Let’s go upstairs. No picking me up bridal style this time.”

Upstairs, Jongin remembers, means Sehun’s room, his childhood bed where once they fucked so slowly, Sehun warm and pliant under him, because his brother was sleeping in the room next to them and the walls were paper thin. It didn’t work very well, if they way he spent the whole breakfast stealing glances at the two of them was a good indicator.

(upstairs, jongin remembers, when they were all alone and jongin tried to carry sehun to his bedroom bridal style and they ended up falling on the second degree)

“That was one time!” he laughs, his eyes twinkling like two stars.  

And as quickly as they can — like teenage boys when their parents weren’t home, happiness bubbling inside their stomachs — they get up and make their way to the stairs, giggling all the time. Jongin’s hand linked with Sehun’s, following him willingly, as he always does.

—

What was supposed to be, in Jongdae’s words, South Korea biggest and most incredible party up to date ended up turning into a simple boys night out with a lot of fried chicken — blame is on Chanyeol feet, who didn’t stop hurting even in his birthday, to the point his face would scrunch up on pain if he stood on them for more than five minutes straight.

Jongin isn’t complaining. Parties make him want to drink, and drinking leaves him wanting to wrap his arms around Sehun’s waist and not let him go until the party ends, which is a thing they can’t do in public, no matter how much he aches for it.

The living room is in a flurry, but everyone is almost ready — if one can count Baekhyun wearing his shirt inside out as almost ready — when Jongin notices Sehun is missing. He tiptoes his way to his and Junmyeon’s bedroom, careful to not draw anyone’s attention, which isn’t difficult when they are all laughing at Chanyeol’s antics. Still, he opens the door quietly, slips inside the room without making a single noise and closes it after him.

The only light comes from the bathroom, a thin flicker sneaking from where the door is slightly ajar. Jongin peeks his head through the opening, the same way he did four months ago, to feel like he’s having some kind of dejávù — Sehun’s sitting in the bathtub, chin propped on his knees. Just as Jongin found him four months ago.

(but it is not a dejávù; time sours, rots, renews and then sours again — two different moments can never be the same)

“Hey,” and it’s Jongin who says it first this time, who breaks the cycle. “We’re going to be late for the dinner if you don’t dress up real quickly.”

Sehun raises his head, looking at him with clear eyes. “Oh, the dinner. I almost forgot it. Guess I zoned out a little bit, I don’t know.” He gives a little sigh and purses his lips before speaking again. “Can you give me five minutes?”

“Make it ten,” Jongin smiles before going back to the room. He turns the lights on and starts choosing Sehun’s clothes while he waits, setting for a honey-colored wool sweater with a white undershirt and black skinny jeans before Sehun appeared through the door in a bathrobe only six minutes after their conversation.

“Wow, so you picked my clothes for me. Thanks, mom.”

“Shut up, I was just trying to save us time. It’s not like everyone isn’t just waiting for you.”

“Oh, so you’re going to say you didn’t specifically search for these jeans because, and I’m quoting you, _I’ve never seen your ass looking so great as when you put those on_ , huh?” Sehun snickers, dropping the robe in a puddle on the floor to wiggle himself into said really tight jeans.

“Absolutely not!” Jongin answers, cheeks flushed red. He also _didn’t_ chose that sweater because the color looked great against Sehun’s milky skin tone. How dare he even think something like that?

“Sure, Sherlock.” He finishes dressing and turns around to look at himself in the mirror, humming appreciably. The jeans truly look wonderful. “Guess I’m fine for a dinner with friends. Who knows, perhaps you can have some future with fashion, with the right mentor on your side. I also presume there’s not much time left for me to put some makeup, right?”

“Well, as of now we are…” He makes a motion of pulling his sleeve down to show the watch Sehun gave him on his last birthday. “Already three minutes late, so no makeup. Not like you need it, anyway.”

“When will you stop being this big ass sap—” Sehun says, but the rest of the phrase gets lost between Jongin’s lips and tongue when he kisses him, shutting him up for once. It’s the perfect distraction, but Sehun’s too smart a guy to fall for this.

“Oh no,” he says after breaking the kiss, pushing Jongin to the bed in the process. “If I don’t have time for makeup then we sure as hell don’t have time for making out.”

“We don’t, really, but look,” Jongin says, voice pleading, while he pulls Sehun into his lap by the hem of his pullover. “Since we’re already late, some more minutes won’t really make a difference, will they?” His hands slip under his clothes, touching warm and soft skin he just wants to kiss into the oblivion. “Five minutes?”

He makes a light _tsk_ sound before his hands come to frame Jongin’s face. “Make it ten,” Sehun says, and smiles.


End file.
